A PRÉCIS OF THE CASE.
A monthago had anyone prophesied that I, Spenser Tait, would be engaged in playing the part of an amateur detective, I should have flatly contradicted his prognostication. Yet here I am doing my best to solve the mystery which hangs round the death of my friend's father. I cannot say that I object to the task, for there is something tremendously exciting in this man hunt. My friendship for Claude is the principal factor which induces me to meddle with the business; but a slight flavoring of selfishness is also present.
Hitherto we had been fairly successful, and have at least found a clew likely to lead to some certain result. Between Mrs. Bezel, Hilliston, and Linton's book, we have learned a good deal of the case; and all our knowledge points to an interview with Jenny Paynton as the next step to be taken.
To-morrow we start for Thorston for this purpose, but before exploring the new field I judge it wise to set down all the facts which have come to our knowledge, and to deduce therefrom, if possible, a logical reason for our future actions. I have my suspicions, but these are vague and intangible. Claude has his suspicions, but these do not coincide with mine. He believes Jeringham to be guilty of the crime. I thinkHilliston is likely to prove the assassin. Both of us may be wrong.
To take the case of Mr. Hilliston. His attitude is decidedly aggressive at the present moment, and he is doing his best to dissuade Claude from investigating the case. Why should he do so? George Larcher was his dearest friend, and met with a cruel fate. If there is any chance of his fate being avenged, surely Hilliston should be the first to prosecute the inquiries. Instead of doing so he hangs back, and throws cold water on my efforts and on Claude's. He must have some reason for his actions. Is that reason to be found at Clarence Cottage in Hampstead?
This question brings me to a delicate point. My work is hampered by the fact that Mrs. Bezel is Claude's mother, and I dare not express myself as I should wish. I gather from the report of the trial that Mrs. Larcher was a vain and silly coquette, who threw away the love of a good man for the indulgence of her own selfish instincts. Guilty she may have been, but not with Jeringham. If she had any lover, it was Francis Hilliston. After a visit to Clarence Cottage I believe the view taken of the case by the novelist to be the right one.
During my interview with Mrs. Bezel I noted her every look and action. When Hilliston's name occurred she flushed up and looked savage; she was anxious to know all about the wife at Kensington Gore, and in every way showed that she had more interest in the man than she cared to confess. Again, she told me that her illness was of ten years' duration. Hilliston has been married ten years. What is more likely than that he should have wearied of the invalid,and so deserted her for Mrs. Derrick, the rich widow.
Mrs. Bezel is jealous of Hilliston and of his wife. Her love has changed to hatred, and I verily believe that she would harm him if she could. Already she has attempted to do so, for it was only her threat to reveal all to Claude that made Hilliston produce that report of the Larcher affair. She has told me all she knows, but I cannot help thinking that she is keeping back certain facts connected with the case. There is a hesitancy and doubt in her speech which points to some secret. If I could learn that secret it might establish the guilt of Hilliston.
And yet I cannot believe that. No woman, however vain, however frivolous, would have lived with the man who murdered her husband, who slew the father of her child. Mrs. Bezel's secret may not directly inculpate Hilliston, but it may point toward him as the possible assassin. But I cannot believe that she thinks him guilty. Their relations with one another forbids so horrible a supposition.
Nevertheless, Hilliston is afraid of the truth coming to light. He denies that the garnet scarfpin ever existed, while Mrs. Bezel said she saw it herself. If the lawyer is not afraid, why should he tell a deliberate lie? It is his word against that of Mrs. Bezel, and as her statement is backed up by the description in the novel, I believe she is telling the truth. Can it be possible that the scarfpin belonged to Hilliston and was dropped by him in the garden of The Laurels on the night of the struggle?
Here Hilliston proves an alibi. He stated to Claude that at the hour of three o'clock, when the crime waspresumably committed, he was at the ball in the Horriston Town Hall. If that can be proved, he must, perforce, be innocent.
Another supposition: Can Mrs. Larcher be actually guilty of her husband's death, and, knowing this, is Hilliston anxious to stop Claude in his investigations lest he should learn so terrible a truth? I cannot believe this, for Mrs. Larcher, or Bezel, set the ball rolling herself, and were she guilty she certainly would not have run such risk.
Then, again, Jeringham fled on the night of the murder. For what reason? If Hilliston killed Larcher why should Jeringham fly? If Mrs. Bezel killed her husband why should Jeringham fly? I see no reason in his flight, and yet if he were guilty and Hilliston knew him to be guilty why should he try and screen him at the present time? Altogether the case is so confusing that I do not know what to think or whom to suspect.
I wonder what has become of Mona Bantry and her child? Mrs. Bezel said she had not seen the girl or her brother for twenty-five years. Yet they must be somewhere. Circumstances point to Jenny Paynton having heard the story of the tragedy from Denis, for no one else could have revealed the episode of the scarfpin, or have described the jewel. If Denis told her he must live at Thorston, and if he lives there his sister must be with him. If this pair, who were in the house on the night of the murder, can be found, the truth may come to light.
After searching Thorston and finding out all I can from the Bantrys,—presuming them to be there,—it is my intention to go down to Horriston and find outsomeone who remembers the case. In spite of the lapse of time there must be some old people alive who danced at that ball in their hot youth. They may be able to say if George Larcher was there present in the character of Darnley, and at what time Hilliston left the ball. I may also hear what they think of Jeringham, and of the conduct of Mrs. Bezel. In making these investigations I shall not take Claude, as I shrewdly suspect the opinions of these oldsters regarding his mother are anything but flattering to that lady. If I go to Horriston I must go alone.
On reading over these notes I am hardly satisfied with them. They do not seem to give me much basis on which to work. I suspect this person and the other, but I have very little evidence to back me up in such suspicions. The only thing that seems clear to me is that Hilliston has some object in thwarting our plans. What the object is I must find out. Perhaps I shall do so at Thorston, where I am certain to meet both Hilliston and his wife.
And that reminds me of what Claude related about her emotion this evening. It is certainly curious, but the worst of dabbling in detective business is that one is apt to get over-suspicious. In this case I think there is no ground for suspicion. Mrs. Hilliston is an American, and came to England twelve years ago. I know this for certain, for I remember when she made herdébutin society. This being the case, she cannot possibly have any connection with Horriston, and her emotion must have been merely the recollection of the story related by her husband when he told her of Claude.
Well, it is past midnight, and I had better end theseunsatisfactory notes. Detective business is harder than I thought. How am I to evolve order out of all this chaos I hardly know, save to trust to luck and Jenny Paynton. And so to bed, as saith worthy Samuel Pepys.
THORSTON.
Itis astonishing how closely one village resembles another in appearance. The square-towered church, the one winding street, the low-roofed inn, and red-tiled cottages, isolated by narrow alleys; corn lands and comfortable farms around, and still further the mansions, more or less stately, of the county families. Go where you will in the southern countries, all the villages are so constituted; one description serves for all, though on occasions the expanse of the Channel introduces a new feature into the landscape. Thorston was of the same class, but, in its own opinion, had more pretentions to grandeur than its neighbors.
Before the Conquest it had been a considerable Saxon town, and, as its name indicates, had flourished before the introduction of Christianity into England. There, according to tradition, a temple to Thor the Thunderer had stood on the hill now crowned with the church; hence the name of Thor's town. Report said that Edward the Confessor had built the church, but of his work little remained, and the present building was due to the piety or fears of a Norman baron, who wished to expiate his sins after the fashion of those times, by erecting a house to some interceding saint. In the present instance this church was dedicated to St. Elfrida, the holy daughter of Athelstan,who renounced her father's court to found a nunnery by the winding river Lax, famous for salmon, as is plainly hinted by its Scandinavian appellation. Yet notwithstanding church and tradition, Thorston had never since been of much importance, and it was now but an ordinary rural village, quaint and sleepy.
From Eastbourne the road, winding, dipping, rising, and curving like a white snake, ran over hill, through dale, along plain, till it ultimately formed the High Street of Thorston. Thence it ran again into the country, but at this point it made its way between houses, thatched and old; and toward the center opened into a market-place adorned by an antique cross. The Inn of St. Elfrida, with an effigy of the saint for a sign, stood on the right of this square, fronting the battered cross; directly opposite a narrow road led on to the village green, at the end of which rose the low hill whereon the Church of St. Elfrida stood amid its trees. Lower down by the Lax could be seen the ruins of her nunnery, and a well frequented by her was to be inspected in the near neighborhood. Here, said the legend, she fought with the devil, who strove to carry away the tower of the church, and being worsted, as the demons always were by Mother Church, he dropped the tower a few yards off the main building. As a matter of fact the square tower is detached from the church, but, as has before been stated, it was built by the Normans long after Elfrida was laid to rest. But the legend took no account of dates, nor did the natives of Thorston, who would have been highly offended had anyone denied the authenticity of their story. In confirmation thereof they referred to the guide book—a notable authority truly.
The whole neighborhood was full of St. Elfrida, who must have been a busy saint in her day, and numerous tourists came to view church, and tower, and holy well. The village derived quite an income from her reputation, and valued the saint accordingly. Amid ancient oaks stood the gray church with its detached tower; around lichened tombstones leaned over one another, and rank grass grew up to the verge of the low stone wall which ran like a battlement round the crest of the little hill. A flight of rugged steps led up to the lych-gate, and here stood a pretty girl in converse with Frank Linton, alias John Parver.
It was a hot summer's day, and the golden light, piercing through the foliage of the trees, enveloped the girl in a glittering haze. She was extremely pretty; dark-eyed, dark-haired, with a complexion of roses and lilies, and as neat a figure as was ever seen. Envious people said that Miss Paynton pinched her waist, but such was not the case, for she was too careless of her appearance, and too careful of her health, to sacrifice the latter to the former. As a matter of fact, she appreciated brains more than beauty, and much preferred to exercise the first in clever conversation than to be complimented on the second. Linton, who had known her for many years, skillfully combined the two modes of paying homage to his divinity. That he received hard words in return was to be expected, for Jenny knew her power over the youth, and liked to exercise it. She was the least vain of mortals, but could not hide from herself that she was clever and pretty, and therefore entitled to indulge in coquetry.
"You grow more beautiful every day, Jenny," saidLinton, who had lately arrived from town and was making up for lost time.
"And you more stupid," retorted Miss Paynton, climbing up on the low wall, where she sat and smiled at him from under her straw hat. "If you have come here to pay me compliments you can go away again. I want you to talk sense, not nonsense."
"What shall I talk about?"
"As if there were any question of that," said she, in supreme disdain. "Are you not famous now? Tell me of your success."
"You know about it already. I sent you all the papers. 'A Whim of Fate,' is the book of the season."
"Oh, just think of that now! Oh, lucky, lucky Frank! So young and so successful. You ought to be happy."
"I am happy, because I now see a chance of making you my——"
"Now you are talking nonsense," cried Jenny, ruthlessly interrupting him. "I won't hear a word more, you ridiculous boy. You are my brother, nothing more."
"But——"
"Don't talk about it, Frank. Be sensible. Come now, you have not yet told me how your father received the news."
"Oh, he is pleased, of course," said Linton, unwillingly changing the subject; "but he reserves his opinion till he has read the book. If he doesn't like it he'll very likely order me to stop writing."
"I'm sure he won't," said Jenny promptly. "You'll make more as an author than as a lawyer."
"No doubt, if you continue to supply me with such excellent plots. I wish I had your invention, Jenny."
"It was not invention. You know that quite well. I found an account of the trial in an old bundle of provincial newspapers. I couldn't have made up such a story."
"Jenny," asked Linton, with some apprehension, "has your father read the book?"
"No; I asked him to do so, but he refuses to read novels. History is what he likes—kings and dates, and battles. Father wouldn't waste a minute over fiction."
"I hope he won't be angry at your giving me the plot, Jenny."
Miss Paynton stared at him in surprise, and burst into a merry laugh. His objection seemed supremely ridiculous to her at that moment.
"My dear boy, why should he? The account of an old murder case can have nothing to do with him. I found the papers in the garret among a heap of old books. I don't suppose he knows of their existence."
"It was a real case, wasn't it?"
"Yes; it took place at Horriston in 1866. But of course the public need not know that."
"Well, I told someone about it."
"Oh, you are an idiot, Frank; or else," added Jenny more graciously, "you are very honest. I suppose you explained that the story was founded on fact?"
"Yes."
"Who asked you about it?"
"Three people. An old gentleman, and two young men."
"What are their names?" asked Jenny curiously.
"I forget. The third one was called Tait, I think, but I don't remember the names of the other two. It doesn't matter, you know," continued the novelist hastily; "lots of authors found their plots on episodes in real life."
"Oh, it's of no consequence," said Jenny idly. "I suppose they thought the plot was too clever for you to invent. At all events the credit is due to you for solving the mystery."
"Ah! But did I solve it properly? Do you think Michael Dene committed the crime?"
"No, I don't!" rejoined Jenny promptly. "I think Jeringham did."
"Jeringham. Who is he?"
"I forgot," said Jenny, with some dismay, "I did not tell you the real names of the people. Jeringham is the man you call Markham in the book. If you remember, I wanted you to make him commit the crime."
"If I had done so no one would have read the book," protested the author. "His flight made it so patent that he was guilty; and I had to put the crime on to someone like Dene, whom no reader would suspect. Do you think that Markham—Jeringham really committed the murder?"
"Yes, I do. If he was innocent why did he fly?"
"Was he ever found again," asked Linton, with some curiosity.
"Never! It is five-and-twenty years ago since the murder was committed, and it is a mystery to this day."
"I'd like to read that newspaper report for myself,"said the author, after a pause. "Could you not let me see it?"
Jenny shook her head. "I'm afraid not," she replied guiltily. "You see Kerry found me with the papers one day and took them away. He was very angry, and said I had no business to look at them."
"My stars!" cried Linton, in a startled tone; "what will he say when he finds out that you and I have made use of them?"
"He won't find out," replied Jenny, jumping down off the wall. "Kerry never reads novels, and no one will tell him. Oh, it's quite safe, Frank, quite safe."
"I'm not so sure of that, Jenny. My father will talk about my book to Mr. Paynton, and he'll tell Kerry."
"Well, what if he does," cried Jenny, skipping down the steps. "I'm sure I don't care if Kerry does know. Who cares for a musty, fusty old crime of five-and-twenty years ago? Don't trouble about it, Frank. I'll take the blame."
Linton walked on in silence beside her, and they entered the market place on their way to the vicarage, He was beginning to have some qualms about the matter. Kerry had a very bad temper, and Linton was by no means anxious to encounter him.
"I wish we had left it alone," he said gloomily, pausing by the cross in the square.
"Nonsense! Don't be a moral coward," said Jenny pettishly. "I'll take the blame on myself. Kerry can't kill me be——"
At this point she was interrupted by a dog-cart containing two young men, which spun past rapidly.The driver took off his hat to Miss Paynton with a smile.
"Oh!" said Jenny composedly, when the vehicle had vanished, "there is our new Lord of the Manor, Mr. Tait."
"Why, those are the two fellows who questioned me about my story!" cried Linton.
"Are they? Yes, you mentioned the name of Tait," said Jenny quietly; "but what does it matter? What a fuss you make over nothing."
"Jenny," said Linton solemnly, "there is going to be trouble over that story."
Miss Paynton stared at him in surprise, then pointed an accusing finger at him.
"Francis Linton," she said slowly, "you are a silly fool. If ever I help you again in your writing, I give you leave to marry me."
Then she ran away and left him dumfounded in the market place. But she was by no means so light-hearted as she appeared to be. Kerry's anger, the questions of the two strangers, made her feel uneasy, and she thought it would have been better had she left the provincial newspapers in the garret. But Fate decided otherwise, and Jenny Paynton, though she knew it not, was an unconscious instrument to revive interest in a forgotten case, to solve a mystery of five-and-twenty years, and to bring an unknown criminal to justice. Life is a chess board, we are the puppets, and Fate plays the game.
IN THE CHURCH.
Thorston Manor, built in broad meadow land, about a quarter of a mile from the village, was now the property of Spencer Tait. He had purchased it lately at a small price from old Miss Felcar, the last representative of that ancient family. She, unable to maintain the house in its original splendor, got quit of it altogether in this way, and shortly afterward took up her quarters at Eastbourne, leaving the house of her ancestors in the possession of a stranger.
The house itself was of no great pretensions, or age, dating only from the second George—a square, red-brick mansion, only redeemed from actual ugliness by the mellow beauty of its hues. The grounds themselves were better, and the trees best of all. An avenue curved nobly to the gate, which gave on the highroad, and to the right of this, fronting the house, was a delightful garden, laid out in the Dutch fashion. There were yew trees cut into quaint shapes, stiff and formal hedges running in straight lines, and beds of old-fashioned flowers. A fountain, a summer house, and a statue or two completed the furniture of this pleasant ground, to which Tait introduced his friend with unconcealed pride.
"I paid for this," he said, looking round as theypaced the broad walks. "By itself the house is a monstrosity, only rendered endurable by its years; but you must confess that the garden is worth the money."
"It is certainly quaint," replied Larcher, looking around with an absent air, "but I do not care for nature in buckram. The formality of this place offends my eye."
"Ah, my dear fellow, you have been used to the wildness of New Zealand woods of late. You will find these grounds grow on you. I shall leave you alone this afternoon to make the attempt."
"Indeed," said Larcher, in some surprise at this cavalier treatment, "and what do you intend to do?"
"I am going to church."
"To church—on a week-day?"
"Oh, I am not bent on devotion, Claude. But Miss Paynton is the organist of the parish. To-day is Wednesday, when she is accustomed to practice between three and five. I propose to see her there."
"Why?"
"Can't you guess? To forestall her with Hilliston. That gentleman is at Eastbourne, and will probably come over to-day or to-morrow to ask Jenny to hold her tongue. As we can't afford to run such a risk, I must get all I can out of her to-day."
"Can I come also?"
"No!" replied Tait promptly. "It would be necessary for me to introduce you."
"What of that? Does it matter?"
"It matters a great deal. Miss Paynton has, we believe, obtained the plot of Linton's novel from a report of the trial. She will know the name of Larcher,and when she hears that you are called so, she will probably take fright and hold her tongue."
"But why should she think I have anything to do with the case?"
"Your own name. Your guardian's," answered Tait quietly. "Both are mentioned in the report of the trial. Oh, I assure you, Jenny is a clever girl, and knows that two and two make four. She will put this and that together, with the result that nothing will be gained by the interview."
"Well, well, go alone," said Claude crossly; "though I envy you the chance. She is a pretty girl, from the glimpse I caught of her."
"And as wise as she is pretty," laughed Tait. "I will need all my wits to deal with her. Now, is it settled?"
"Yes. You go to your organist, and I'll potter about these green alleys and think myself an abbe of Louis XIV.'s time."
Having come to this amicable understanding, they went in to luncheon, after which Tait gave Claude a sketch of the people in the neighborhood. Later on he sent him into the Dutch garden with a cigar and a book, then betook himself by a short cut through the park to the Church of St. Elfrida. Shortly after four he entered by the main door, and found himself in the aisle listening to the rolling notes of the organ.
There was no attempt at decoration in that church, for the vicar was broad in his views, and hating all ritualism from his soul, took a pride in keeping the edifice bare and unadorned. The heavy arches of gray stone, the white-washed walls, with here and there a mural tablet, the plain communion tableunder the single stained-glass window; nothing could be less attractive. Only the deep hues of roof and pews, the golden pipes of the organ, and the noble lectern, with its brazen eagle, preserved the church from looking absolutely irreverent. Through the glazed windows of plain glass poured in the white light of day, so that the interior lacked the reverent gloom, most fitted to the building, and the marks of time were shown up in what might be termed a cruel manner. Of old, St. Elfrida's had been rich in precious marbles, in splendid altars, and gorgeous windows, many-hued and elaborate; but the Puritans had destroyed all these, and reduced the place to its present bareness, which the vicar took a pride in preserving. It seemed a shame that so noble a monument of Norman architecture should be so neglected.
The red curtains of the organ loft hid the player, but Tait knew that it was Jenny by the touch, and sat down in a pew to wait till she had finished her practising. One piece followed the other, and the stately music vibrated among the arches in great bursts of sound, a march, an anthem, an offertory, till Tait almost fell asleep, lulled by the drone of the pipes. At length Jenny brought her performance to an end, and having dismissed the boy who attended to the bellows, tripped down the aisle with a music book under her arm. She looked as fresh and pink as a rose, but quite out of place in that bare, bleak building. Toward her Tait advanced with a bow.
"Here I am, you see, Miss Paynton," he said, shaking her by the hand. "I heard your music, and could not help coming in to listen. I hope you do not mind my intrusion."
"Oh, the Lord of the Manor can go anywhere," said Jenny demurely. "I am glad to see you again, Mr. Tait. The second time to-day, is it not?"
"Yes; I drove past you in the market place, if I remember rightly. Won't you sit down, Miss Paynton, and give me all the news. I am terribly ignorant of local gossip, I assure you."
Nothing loath, the girl seated herself in a pew near the door, and occupied herself in fixing her glove. Remembering the conversation with Linton, she was slightly uneasy at Tait's very direct request, but thinking that it could not possibly have anything to do with the plot of Linton's novel, resigned herself to circumstances. Before the conversation ended she wished that she had refused to speak to Tait at that moment; but it was then too late.
"News," she repeated with a laugh, "do we ever have any news in this dreary place. I should rather ask you for news, Mr. Tait, who are fresh from London."
"Oh, but no doubt our young author has already told you all that is worth hearing," said Tait, deftly leading up to his point; "he has been quite the lion of the season."
"Yes. He has been very fortunate," replied Jenny carefully. She did not relish the sudden introduction of this forbidden subject.
"And he owes it to you, I believe."
"To me. Good gracious, Mr. Tait! what have I to do with Frank's success?"
"According to what he says, everything."
"What do you mean," she said, sitting up very straight, with a deeper color than usual on her cheek.
"Why," said Tait, looking directly at her, and thereby adding to her confusion, "Frank told me that you supplied the plot of 'A Whim of Fate.'"
"And what if I did, Mr. Tait?"
"Oh, nothing, only I must compliment you on your—shall we say selection or invention?"
"The former," replied Jenny, with extraordinary quickness. "Since Frank makes no secret of it, why should I? The plot was told him by me, and I found it set forth as a trial in a newspaper of 1866."
"H'm! In theCanterbury Observer, I believe?"
"How do you know that is the name of the paper?" she asked in a nervous tone.
"I learned it from the same source that supplied me with the history of the Larcher affair."
"What! You also know the name of the case?"
"As you see."
"Frank does not know it. I did not show him the papers. I suppressed all names when I told the story," she said incoherently; "but now you—you——"
"I know all. Yes, you are right," observed Tait complacently. "I am better acquainted with the plot of 'A Whim of Fate' than John Parver himself."
Jenny sat looking at him in a kind of wild amazement. From the significance of his tone, the extent of his knowledge, she vaguely felt that something was wrong. Again, the anger of Kerry, the conversation of Linton, came into her mind, and she saw into what difficulty the chance telling of that ancient crime had led her. Tait noticed that she was perplexed and frightened, so dexterously strove to set her more at ease by making a clean breast of it, and enlisting her sympathy for Claude.
"You saw the friend who was with me in the cart, Miss Paynton?"
"Yes. Who is he?"
"Claude Larcher!"
"Claude La—— What do you mean, Mr. Tait? I am in the dark. I do not understand. Have I done anything wrong in—in——"
"In telling the case to Linton?" finished Tait smoothly. "By no means. As a matter of fact you have done my friend a service."
"He is called Larcher! Who is he?" she asked again with an effort.
"He is the son of George Larcher, who was murdered at Horriston in 1866."
FACT AND FICTION.
A silenceensued between them; Tait waiting to mark the effect of his revelation, while Jenny tried to grasp the idea that fiction had changed unexpectedly to fact. To her the case had been more or less of a romance, far removed and impossible; as such she had told it to Linton; but now, brought face to face with the fact that the murdered man's son was in the neighborhood, she scarcely knew what to think, certainly she was ignorant what to say. The shock would have unstrung a more nervous woman, but Jenny Paynton was not wanting in pluck, and so braced herself up to do what was required of her. Yet it took her a little time to recover, and seeing this, Tait afforded her the opportunity by talking broadly of the matter; later on he intended to enter into details.
"I do not wonder you are startled, Miss Paynton," he said easily; "this is a coincidence such as we rarely meet with in real life. My friend was ignorant of his father's fate, but one evening papers were put into his hands which recounted the tragedy; papers similar to those whence you obtained the story. He came to tell me all, but scarcely had he begun his relation, when I became aware that I knew everything beforehand."
"Had you also seen the papers, Mr. Tait?"
"No; but I had read 'A Whim of Fate.' There I found the Larcher affair set forth in the guise of fiction. Astonished at this I sought out Linton, who, I learned, was the author hidden under the name of John Parver, and asked him whence he obtained his material. He mentioned your name, and so I have come to you."
"Why?"
"Can you ask? To find out all you know of the matter."
"For what reason?"
"I think you can guess my reason," replied Tait quietly. "My friend Claude Larcher wishes to find out who killed his father."
"After five-and-twenty years? Impossible!"
"So I said at first. Now I am of a different opinion. In a short space of time we have found out a great deal. With your help we will discover more, and so in the end the matter may be cleared up."
"You want my help?"
"Decidedly! It is solely for that reason that Larcher and I have come here."
It was a pale-faced Jenny who sat considering a reply to this remark. She began to be aware that she had inadvertently set a ball rolling, the progress of which she was powerless to stop. That chance discovery in the garret had resuscitated an old scandal, and brought her into contact with people of whose existence she had hitherto been ignorant. As a matter of fact Jenny was responsible for the revival of the Larcher affair. Her narration of the plot had caused the writing of the novel, and that in its turn had freshened the memory of Mrs. Bezel, with the resultthat Claude had been told the truth. Now he had come to the source to learn more.
"I don't see how I can help," said Jenny, fencing with the inevitable. "If, as you say, Mr. Larcher saw theCanterbury Observer, he must know as much as I do about the matter."
"Very true," replied Tait promptly; "but there are many things in the novel which are not mentioned in the report of the case."
"Those things are fictitious. You must go to Frank for information about them."
"Was that scarfpin episode fictitious?"
"No," replied Jenny, with some hesitation. "Kerry told me that."
"Kerry!"
"Our man-servant. He has been with my father ever since I can remember, and is quite the autocrat of the household. He found me with those papers one day after I told Frank the story, and took them away from me. You have no idea how angry he was that I had read them."
"Yet he told you about the scarfpin?"
"Oh! that was because I asked him who had committed the crime," said Jenny quickly. "At first he would not talk about it, but when I said that no doubt Jeringham was guilty, since he had fled, Kerry denied it, and asserted that the crime was committed by the man who owned the garnet scarfpin."
"Did he say who owned it?"
"No. He went away before I could ask him, and will not let me speak of the matter. In the book Frank makes Michael Dene the owner of the pin."
"Ah! and Michael Dene is Francis Hilliston in real life."
"How do you know that?" asked the girl quickly, with a nervous start.
"My dear young lady, I have read the report of the case and the novel. It is easy to see who your fictitious personages are. Do you know Mr. Hilliston?"
"A little. He has visited my father once or twice, but we have not seen him now for many years. In fact, I had almost forgotten his name till I saw it in the case."
"Humph! In the novel Michael Dene, the man meant for Hilliston, commits the crime. Was that your idea or Linton's?"
"It was Frank's. Dene was the least likely person to be suspected, and it was necessary to keep up the mystery to the end. But I think he ought to have made Markham commit the crime."
"Markham is Jeringham, is he not?" said Tait thoughtfully. "With your permission, Miss Paynton, we will use the real names, not the fictitious. It will help us to understand the matter more clearly."
Jenny stood up, and tucked the music book under her arm. The recollection of Kerry's anger made her feel that she was unwise to talk so freely to a stranger about the matter. Hitherto, Tait had taken his own way; now she was resolved to take hers.
"I don't want to speak any more about it," she said resolutely. "I am very sorry I told Frank the story, and meddled with those papers. Let me pass, Mr. Tait, and drop the subject."
"No, don't do that," cried Tait, rising in his turn,and barring her way. "You must not fail me at the eleventh hour. My friend is bent on learning the truth, and surely you will not grudge him help. Remember it is the murderer of his father whom he desires to bring to justice."
"I can't say any more. I know no more, Mr. Tait. Do you know what I am about to do?"
"No," said Tait, looking at her grave face in some wonder.
"I am going home to tell my father and Kerry what use I made of those papers. If I have acted wrongly, it is but right that they should know."
"They will know shortly without your telling, Miss Jenny."
"Ah, you intend to speak of the matter yourself?"
"Perhaps! But in this case I allude to Hilliston."
"Hilliston!" repeated Jenny, in surprise. "What has he to do with the matter?"
"A great deal, I fancy. More than you or I suspect. He is now at Eastbourne, and I am certain he will come over here to see you to-morrow."
"To see me! Why?"
"Because he wants you to hold your tongue about these matters."
"Mr. Tait," she cried, with a sudden flush, "surely you are not biased by Frank's book? You imply that Mr. Hilliston is afraid of the truth."
"I think he is! In fact I am sure he is."
"Do you believe he committed that cowardly crime of twenty-five years ago?" asked Jenny, with scorn.
"What is your own opinion?" was the counter question.
"I believe that Jeringham was the murderer.Yes! Captain Larcher went in disguise to that ball, and learned the truth from the lips of his own wife. I believe she loved Jeringham. I believe he followed her home on that fatal night, urging her to fly. Then Captain Larcher appeared on the scene, and in the struggle that ensued he was killed. Jeringham fled, and Mrs. Larcher died. That, I am certain, is the true history of this crime."
"You, then, think that Mrs. Larcher was privy to the murder?"
"Oh, I don't say that!" said the girl, shrinking back; "it is impossible to say. But I have no right to talk to you about these matters, Mr. Tait. I have told you all I know. Let me pass, please."
Tait bowed, and stood aside hat in hand. She flitted down the aisle, a slim girlish figure, and had arrived at the door when his voice arrested her.
"One moment, Miss Paynton," he said, following her quickly.
"What is it?"
"Don't tell your father of this for twenty-four hours."
"Why?"
"Because I want to prove to you that what I say is true. Hilliston will inform your father himself, and ask you to be silent."
"It is too late for that now—unfortunately."
"Why unfortunately? You should be glad to have strengthened the hands of justice. However, we need not speak of that now. Will you promise to withhold your confession for the time I ask?"
"I promise nothing, Mr. Tait. Good-evening!"
"But, Miss Paynton," he said, following her again,"you surely will not be so rash. You can have no idea how important these matters are to my friend. Mr. Hilliston is certain to inform your father within the next twenty-four hours, so surely you can give us that time to do what we can. I beg of you——"
Jenny stopped irresolutely, and looked at Tait with a mixture of anger and doubt. The matter had now grown so intricate that she did not know what to do, what to say. She had not known Tait long enough to be guided by his advice, or to rely on his judgment; and her impulse was to tell her father and receive suggestions as to what was best to be done under the circumstances. Yet, she also mistrusted Hilliston, as his connection with the Horriston case seemed to her to be by no means as simple as had appeared at first sight. She was suspicious of him, and if he came over to Thurston especially to ask her to be silent, that would go a long way toward confirming her doubts. And then, after all, no harm could be done within the twenty-four hours, as afterward she could tell her father; thus, at once satisfying her conscience and her curiosity, she made the compromise.
"Very well, Mr. Tait," she said gravely. "I promise to be silent for twenty-four hours."
A NEW SUSPICION.
Spenser Taitwalked back to the Manor House with the pleasing conviction that he had passed a very profitable hour. He had warned Jenny about the probable movements of Hilliston, and thus had put her on her guard against that astute individual. Once an idea enters a woman's head, it is impossible to get it out again, and Tait, by half hinting a confirmation of Jenny's suspicions regarding the lawyer, had made her uneasily conscious that Hilliston was a man to be watched and reckoned with. If Hilliston fulfilled Tait's prophecy, the little man believed that Jenny would resent his interference, penetrate his motives, and thwart him, if possible. In spite of her denial that she thought him guilty, Tait could not but perceive that the reading of the case had not biased her in favor of the dead man's friend. Jenny believed that Jeringham had committed the crime, but, if Hilliston acted indiscreetly, it would not take much to induce her to alter that opinion. Tait chuckled as he thought of these things; for he had not only cut the ground from under Hilliston's feet by warning Jenny of his possible arrival, but had, as he truly thought, converted a passive spectator into an active enemy.
Again, he had learned that it was the old servant who had informed the girl concerning the scarfpinepisode. Kerry said that the man who owned the scarfpin was guilty; and Kerry knew to whom the scarfpin belonged. If he could only be induced to part with the information there might be some chance of solving the mystery; but Kerry's—or rather Denis Bantry's—past conduct and present attitude were so doubtful that it was difficult to know how he would act, even though he were driven into a corner. Tait had little doubt in his own mind that Kerry was the old servant of Captain Larcher, for no one but he knew the truth about the scarfpin. Nevertheless, he failed to understand why the man had changed his name, and why he was staying at Thorston as servant to a recluse like Paynton. Only a personal interview with him could settle these vexed questions, but Tait was of two opinions whether Kerry would be amenable to reason, and confess his reasons for such concealment.
Thus thinking, and trying to come to some conclusion regarding the new aspect placed upon affairs by the conversation with Jenny, the little man arrived home, and learning that Claude was still in the garden, he went there to report the result of his interview, and discuss the situation. Larcher was leaning back in a comfortable garden chair, with an open book on his knee, but, instead of reading, he was staring with unseeing eyes into the fresh green of the tree above him. On hearing Tait's brisk step he hastily lowered his head with a flush, as though he had been caught doing something wrong, and grew still more confused when he saw his friend looking at him with a queer expression of amusement.
"She is a pretty girl," said Tait significantly; "and I don't wonder you are thinking of her."
"Thinking of who?" asked Claude merrily, at this reading of his thoughts. "Are you a mind reader?"
"So far as you are concerned, I am. Knowing how easily influenced you are by the sight of a pretty face, I don't think I am far wrong in guessing that your thoughts were with Jenny Paynton."
"Well, yes," replied Claude, with a frank laugh. "I do not deny it. The glimpse I caught of her as we drove past in the cart charmed me greatly. I have rarely seen a more sympathetic and piquant face."
"Bah! You say that of every woman you meet. Your geese are always swans."
"Jenny is, at all events!" said Larcher promptly; "and you cannot deny that; but I admire her exceedingly—that is, as a pretty woman. You see, I already call her Jenny in my own mind, but that is because you always talk of her by her Christian name. Now, Jenny is——"
"My dear Don Juan," said Tait blandly; "don't you think we had better leave off these erotics and get to business. You must not indulge in the ideal to the exclusion of the real."
"Oh, not that business!" sighed Larcher wearily. "I don't believe we'll do any good with it. The mystery of my father's death is likely to remain one to the end of time for all I can see. Every trace is obliterated by the snows of twenty-five years."
"Not entirely, my friend. For instance, I have learned an important fact to-day."
"From Miss Paynton?"
"Yes. We had a long conversation, and she was considerably startled when she learned the object of your visit here."
"Was it wise of you to tell her?"
"Why, yes," returned Tait decidedly. "We can do nothing without her help, and that she will refuse to give us unless she learns the reason of our inquiries."
"What is her opinion of the matter? The same as Linton's, I suppose?"
"By no means. She thinks that Jeringham killed your father; but I am not altogether sure that she does not suspect Hilliston. After all, she may come round to Linton's opinion before long."
"Did you tell her that we suspected Hilliston?" asked Claude anxiously.
"Not directly. But I permitted myself to hint as much. However, I only aided the seed of suspicion to sprout, for it was already implanted in her mind. You look astonished, Claude, but recall to your recollection the report of that case, and you will see that Hilliston was far too much mixed up in the matter to be as ignorant as he pretended to be at the trial. According to his evidence he had not left the ballroom, and consequently could have known nothing of the tragedy which was then being enacted at The Laurels. Yet, he knows details which, so far as I can see, prove him to have been an eye-witness."
Claude jumped to his feet, and began restlessly pacing up and down the gravel walk. He yet retained some belief in Hilliston, and was reluctant to think that one to whom he owed so much should be guilty of so foul a crime. It was true that certain circumstances looked black against him, but these were purely theoretical, and by no means founded on absolute facts. After due consideration Claude inclined to the belief that Tait was too easily satisfied of Hilliston'sguilt, and was willing to accept any stray facts likely to confirm his theory. Thus biased he could not possibly look on the matter in a fair and equable manner. The wish was altogether too greatly father to the thought.
"I don't think you give Hilliston a fair show, Tait," he said, stepping before his friend. "If he winks an eye you look on it as a sign of his guilt. My mother assured me solemnly that Hilliston was at the ball when the tragedy occurred."
"Oh, in that case, I have nothing more to say," said Tait coldly. "Still," he added rather spitefully, "I should like to know why Mr. Hilliston is so anxious to keep the matter quiet."
"Tait!" said Claude hoarsely, sitting down by his friend and seizing his arm; "do you know I have often asked myself that question, and I have found a reply thereto; the only reply of which I can think."
He paused, and looked fearfully around; then wiped the sweat off his white face with a nervous gesture. Tait eyed him in amazement, and could not understand what had come over his usually self-possessed friend; but he had no time to speak, for Claude, with an irrepressible shiver, whispered in a low voice:
"What if my mother should be guilty, after all? Ah, you may well look astonished, but that is the hideous doubt which has haunted me for days. My mother says she ran at my father with a dagger, but fainted before she struck him. What if she did not faint; if she really killed him, and Hilliston, knowing this, is trying to screen her, and trying to save me from knowing the truth?"
"But, my dear fellow, the trial——"
"Never mind the trial. We now know that Denis swore falsely when he asserted that my father was not in the house on that night. We know that he was in the house, and that my mother found him with Mona Bantry. Her jealousy might have carried her to greater lengths than she intended to go. Denis saved her at the trial by telling a lie; but we know the truth, and I cannot rid myself of a doubt, that she may be guilty. If so, in place of being an enemy, Hilliston is acting the part of a friend in placing obstacles in our way."
Tait shook his head. "I do not believe Mrs. Bezel is guilty," he said quietly; "if she had been, she would certainly not have written to you, and thus forced Hilliston to show you the papers. Banish the thought from your heart, Claude. I am as certain as I sit here that your mother is innocent of the crime."
"If I could only be certain!"
"And why should you not be," exclaimed Tait vigorously. "An eye-witness could tell you the truth."
"Where can I find an eye-witness?" cried Claude, with an impatient frown. "Mona Bantry and Jeringham have both fled; they are probably dead by this time. My mother denies that she struck the blow, and Hilliston, she says, was at the ball when the murder took place. Who can tell me the truth?"
"Denis Bantry," said Tait quietly. "Listen to me, Claude. The episode of the garnet scarfpin, which to my mind is the clew to the assassin, is only known to your mother, to Hilliston, and to Denis Bantry. Now Hilliston denies that such a trinket exists; your mother insists that it was found on the bank of theriver after the murder. The only person who can give the casting vote—who can arbitrate, so to speak—is Denis Bantry."
"And where is Denis Bantry? Lost or dead, years ago."
"Nothing of the sort, my friend. Denis Bantry is alive and in this neighborhood. Yes; Jenny Paynton admitted to me that the scarfpin episode was related to her by their old servant, Kerry. Therefore, it naturally follows that Kerry is Denis Bantry."
"But why is he hiding here under another name?" said Larcher, after he had digested this piece of information, with a due display of astonishment.
"That I cannot say. Unless," here Tait hesitated before uttering his opinion, "unless Denis Bantry is the guilty person."
"But that is impossible; that is out of the question," said Claude decidedly. "He was devoted to my father, as you know. Why should he turn and kill him without a cause?"
"Ah!" said Tait significantly; "what if he had a cause, and a very good one, to kill your father. Recall your mother's confession. She returned at three o'clock in the morning and found her husband alone with Mona, the sister of Denis. She accused Mona of being her husband's mistress, and the girl confessed her guilt, which your father evidently could not deny. Now what is more probable than that Denis, attracted by the high voices, should have followed your mother to the room. There he would hear the truth, probably while waiting at the door. What follows? With his impulsive Irish temperament he dashes in, hot to avenge the wrong done to his sister. The dagger dropped byyour mother is at his feet; he picks it up and kills his master on the instant. Your mother, in a faint on the floor, knows nothing of what is going on, and brother and sister remove the body to the river, where they drop it in. Then Mona is sent away by Denis to hide her shame and evade awkward questions, while he remains."
"But why should he remain?" interrupted Claude smartly. "Would it not have been wiser for him to fly?"
"And so confess his guilt. No! He induces Jeringham to fly, with a threat of denouncing him as the murderer of Larcher. Jeringham is in such a dilemma that, seeing that all the evidence will be against him, he takes to flight. Thereupon Denis is able to save his mistress, and himself, by denying that Larcher came to the house on that night. Of course, this is all pure theory; still it is as circumstantial as the rest of the evidence we have in hand."
But Claude was by no means inclined to agree with this last remark. "There are flaws in your argument," he said, after a few moments' reflection. "If Denis intended to deny that my father was in the house on that night, why should he induce Jeringham to fly?"
"To make assurance doubly sure. No doubt he intended first to put the blame on Jeringham, but finding that Mrs. Larcher was likely to be accused, he made things safe for her by denying that his master returned on that evening. Only four people knew of the return; Mona, who fled, Mrs. Larcher, who held her tongue to save her neck; Denis, who swore falsely to serve his mistress; and Jeringham, who thought he might be accused of the crime."
"But why wouldn't he have denounced Denis?"
"He was doubtless ignorant that Denis was the criminal. You forget that Jeringham was in the garden, and knew nothing of what was taking place in the sitting room. Denis rushed out, and finding Jeringham may have told him that Mrs. Larcher had killed her husband on his account. The man, bewildered and shocked, yet sees that he is complicated in the case through his love for Mrs. Larcher; he guesses that owing to the gossip of the place he may be accused of the crime, and so does the wisest thing he could do,—the only thing he could do,—and seeks refuge in flight."
"Then you think Denis is guilty?"
"I can't say. As you see, I can make a strong case out against your mother, against Jeringham, against Denis. Yes, I could even make a case against Mona Bantry; but it is sole theory. Yet Denis must have some reason for hiding here under the name of 'Kerry,' and for keeping those papers found by Jenny which contained a report of the case. The case is strong against Hilliston, I admit, but is stronger against your father's own servant."
"I don't think so," said Claude quietly. "If Denis had killed my father, he would not have told Jenny about the scarfpin."
"Why not! The scarfpin may have belonged to Jeringham—to Hilliston. For his own safety—now that the case is recognized after so many years by a girl's rash action—Denis would not hesitate to blame them to save himself. Taking it all round," added Tait, with the air of one who has settled the question, "I think the conduct of Denis is very suspicious, andI would not be surprised if he turned out to be the guilty person."
"But the acts of Hilliston?"
Tait rubbed his head and looked vexed, for he was unable to give a direct answer. "Let us leave the matter alone for the present," he said crossly. "I am getting bewildered with all this talk. Only one person can tell the truth, and that is Kerry, alias Denis Bantry."